Running on Empty
by White Star 2
Summary: Try and love her if you can.


Title: Running on Empty  
  
Author: White Star 2 (hila-p@barak-online.net)  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Spoilers: Early S3-ish.  
  
Pairing: CJ/Toby  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. But that's only until I bribe Aaron into giving them to me.   
  
Summary: Try and love her if you can.  
  
Author's Notes: Started when I was still learning how to drive, it's fitting that it's done now that I've finally gotten my license. So in honor of that piece of paper that says I can drive, I give you this.  
  
This one goes to the magnificent beta team. Stephanie, Lauren, Arkin, Lydia, Priya, and Ayelet, who even though she recused herself helped find a title so I can stop referring to it as "the car story".   
  
---  
  
"That's not what I'm saying! God, Toby, if you could just *listen*!"   
  
He looks at the road ahead of him and nearly flinches as CJ cuts in front of cars left and right. The tail-lights move past them so fast they make tiny diagonal smears of bright red. She doesn't seem afraid of denting her almost-new car.  
  
He knows she drives like this when she's upset. But her car's all they had at their disposal tonight. He would have driven it, but it's a stick. And so he's stuck, resisting the urge to duck or grab something for support, or even to simply close his eyes. Instead he fiddles with his bow tie, folds it and unfolds it in his hands.  
  
He knows she acts like this, he just wishes she wouldn't tonight. He has too much on his mind, things to sort out, too much he still has to work on. The benefit went well, the women's groups were pleased with what the President had to say. And now he should be able to go home, kick off his shoes at the end of a long week, write emails about the new initiative, and never again hear Doug say, "Battered women are pure gold in the bank."  
  
Instead he listens to her say, "This isn't about work and it isn't about politics." She nearly yanks the stick out of its place. Someone honks at them. "You can't just dismiss it like that. This is about *us*."  
  
"I know," he says, trying not to sound as helpless or out of control as he feels. His voice comes out weak, nearly inaudible. Guilty.  
  
They never used to fight. They argued, but they almost never fought. When they did, it was always work or politics, never personal; things were never personal enough to fight about before. Now that they are, it seems to him that he's a lot more comfortable with it than she is. And suddenly they do fight often, and eerily it's starting to remind him of his marriage.  
  
She turns off the freeway and takes the overpass so sharply he's thrown sideways. The thought occurs to him, rather out of nowhere, that this isn't what he wanted to be doing on Saturday night.  
  
He's almost forgotten what an actual relationship is like. They never expected this to reach relationship proportions. It started as a remark that lingered for a few hours, a quick fuck after a particularly bad day. He never expected it to last.  
  
But it did, for months. And it got more serious, and he got comfortable, even as she started to feel trapped. He's known her for ten years and three months the day before yesterday, but never lets her suspect he counts the days. He's paid attention to her for almost that long, was her friend. He doesn't remember a relationship she's had that has lasted this long.  
  
This, he imagines, was how she began acting with all those other men in her past, as well. Picking fights for no reason, being wild and unpredictable, driving destructively. He's lasted this long not because of luck but because he knows her. He's careful.  
  
And now this. It should be just another fight created by that part of her that tries to sabotage anything resembling a long-term relationship. They've had these fights before. But this one's unfair. This one is personal.  
  
The car screeches to a halt at a red light. He tries to relax his tense muscles a little. She isn't saying anything. He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's not because of you," he says, trying the line of reasoning he's been saving for a last resort.  
  
"Like hell," she spits out. The light changes and her hand pushes at the stick. He sees her knee jerk up violently and the engine dies. She twists the key so forcefully it nearly snaps in two and the car leaps forward right as the green light turns to yellow.  
  
"CJ, stop the car," he says not expecting her to listen. "I thought you wanted to talk about this."  
  
"Yes, well," she says, "You obviously don't."  
  
She's right, he doesn't. Some things he still considers personal. Some parts of his past he isn't willing to share, not even with her. She knows it, and she insists on dragging him through it anyway. He yelled, too, during their first fights, and he grew tired of it. Now he sits there and takes the beating and tries very hard to talk down all the reasons why he shouldn't.  
  
* * *  
  
He was laying behind her. It was symbolic, almost, a metaphor of their relationship - she was the one to lead. It was all on her terms. He didn't mind. He was just happy to have her. He was tracing lines up and down her spine. Once in a while he felt her shudder. She wouldn't turn around. She was concocting another fight.  
  
He kissed the back of her shoulder. She didn't move. For just a second, he didn't breathe. Then she sat up, out of his reach, artistically nude with the sheets still tangled in her limbs. She cast them aside and said, "I really wish I could do more for these women."  
  
He snuck one foot out from under the blanket. The air was chilly. "You want to help everyone," he said. "You have a big heart." And with some hesitation he added, "I love that about you."  
  
"I wish you could love all of me, not just parts." Her tone was dry. If he hadn't known her so well he might have thought he'd really hurt her, but he knew her, and he knew it was superficial, a flesh wound.  
  
He could have said it right then. He loved her, all of her, no exceptions, no reservations. He wouldn't have been lying. But he hadn't said it yet because he knew her and he knew it wasn't what she needed to hear. Not yet, at least. She didn't really want him to say it. She was just baiting, and he was treading lightly.  
  
She dangled her feet over the side of the bed, not looking at him. He withdrew his leg back into the warmth of the blanket and she got up.  
  
"Come back to bed," he suggested. He wasn't sure it was the right thing to say; it probably wasn't. He just wanted to hold her. He was going to have to admit to himself that her words had hurt him more than his words had supposedly hurt her.  
  
"It's getting late," she said in the same dry tone, and he saw her struggle to stay expressionless. He glanced at the clock. Almost six am. "You should go soon."  
  
She was right - he needed to go home, shower, change his clothes. But he hated leaving it like this. It wasn't a good way for either of them to start the morning.  
  
He pushed the blankets away, to hell with the warmth. The floor was colder than he expected. He pulled his boxers on.  
  
She was standing in front of the long mirror on her closet door. He wrapped his arms around her naked body, but she was rigid. He kissed her neck softly and felt the stiffness slowly dissolve. She brought an arm up to her shoulder. It touched his scalp. He looked up again and saw her fingering a small, rectangular bruise on her shoulder.  
  
"I was going to wear the Valentino for the benefit tonight," she said and there was a touch of disappointment in her voice. He kissed her shoulder, just above the bruise. It wasn't the first time she'd had to change her wardrobe plans because of him. "I'll have to wear something that covers this."  
  
She was an expert at hiding bruises. The proper shirt, a different dress, a cleverly applied coat of makeup. Like a closet junkie, rushing to hide any incriminating mark. God forbid anyone should know she was seeing someone. God forbid anyone should assume she was in a relationship.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said and wrapped his left arm around her shoulders. It looked almost silly, the two of them in the large mirror, her almost too tall, him almost too wide. But she didn't seem to mind, and he liked the feeling.  
  
Her hand moved from her shoulder to his hand, tracing paths, teasing. It felt its way in long trails from his fingers to his wrist and stopped dead in its tracks when it grazed his wedding ring, there on his finger, forgotten.  
  
He looked at the bruise in the mirror, rectangular, thin, identical in shape. He'd bruised her before, just as she'd bruised him. But it - the ring - had never dared make a mark until now.  
  
He felt her move, and she was out of his grasp before he had time to think. She got into the shower without saying another word. He let himself out and went home. The whole day she didn't speak to him more than she absolutely had to and his left hand gravitated toward his pocket every time he saw her.  
  
He went to the benefit in the motorcade, feeling strangled by his bow tie. She drove home first, then showed up in a gray dress that must have been new and avoided him all evening.  
  
He saw her talking to Sam, a few words, leaning toward him and just a little downward. Then she made her way through the crowd toward the exit and stopped once, turned and looked at him. It was a harsh look, direct and sharp as knives, and he knew she already knew where he was, that she'd been watching him all night, too. Her eyes lingered as she turned her head away in a manner that just screamed, "Follow me." So he did.  
  
When he finally caught up with her, the valet was giving her the car keys and he got in without a second thought. She took her time getting in and slammed the door so hard it made him jump.  
  
"CJ," he tried to start, as unsure of what to say as he'd been that morning. He yanked at his tie until it loosened.  
  
"Either this is a relationship or it isn't."  
  
"This is a part of me that doesn't belong to you," he said, because it's all he could think to say, because when he couldn't think on his feet, he resorted to the truth even though it might not be the wisest thing to do under the circumstances.  
  
She started the car and stepped on the gas. "It can be me, or it can be her." She didn't yell, but he knew she'd do plenty of that soon enough. "It can't be both of us."  
  
* * *  
  
She doesn't like being driven.  
  
It's more than a simple extension of how much she likes to drive. She needs to be in control. And so they always end up taking her car. He lets her drive his car, too, and it's amusing to see her foot search around for the clutch and her right hand move on the wheel, antsy.  
  
She lets him drive once in a while, if she's a little drunk or too tired. And then she sits next to him, shoes cast off, bare or stockinged feet resting on top of the glove compartment, barely looking ahead. She drives him crazy, especially when she's wearing a skirt and he can barely concentrate on the road.  
  
But now it's her car and he doesn't even have the option of driving, not that he'd offer, anyway, because he values his life. She's speeding through the city, but she turns off onto a side street, taking the long way, and it forces her to drive more slowly. He sees her forcing herself to calm down. It takes a special kind of arrogance to want to drive a stick through streets like that.  
  
"Either this is a relationship or it isn't," she says for the second time that night.  
  
He sits quietly, watching the stick on second, static for the first time since he got in the car. He can't help thinking that he never took crap from Andi the way he does from her. CJ's angry and punishing and he's taking it like he's sedated. He can't keep it up, because he isn't the type that can stay down when he's baited. He can hardly believe he managed to make it until now. "It can't be a relationship until you stop being so afraid of it," he says and regrets it almost instantly.  
  
Her expression doesn't change, but he knows she's stomaching it. His fingers start dancing on his knee, drumming nervously while he waits for her reply. Finally it comes, a weak and determined "I hate you sometimes." He closes his eyes and it feels like a pulled punch that still hit too hard.  
  
She glances sideways again, gives him one more look and hits the stereo. It blares out jazz music and she tries another button. On the third try she finds loud electric guitars and blurred lyrics. She puts her hand back on the wheel. Neither of them can stand this kind of music. But it's loud and it's angry, and right now, so is she.  
  
The line between love and hate is thin with CJ, and drawn at angry sex, and it's just what they do. Because she keeps driving when they pass by his street and doesn't even ask if she should stop.  
  
He lies on his back and she rests against him, not quite on her back, not quite on her side. He's not sure how long they lie there in silence, but when he thinks to check the time it's past two. She's tracing the patterns of the sheet with her finger. He can't help but wonder what she's thinking.  
  
"We're wrong for each other," she says and it takes him by surprise - not just the words but how she says them. She's perfectly calm, and it's not a forced calm. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move. "This isn't working." It seems to him like there's an echo in the room, or maybe just in his head. She rolls over, curled up on her side next to him, and he wraps an arm around her. He's not ready to let her go.  
  
But he might have to, he knows, because she's right. It isn't working, and he can't keep it up. He knows how good it gets when it's good, but the bad is slowly overtaking the good, and soon all he'll have of CJ is the same bitter taste in his mouth he gets when he tries to think back to his life with Andi. Of course, he still remembers how wonderful Andi was, how much he loved her. And that, ultimately, is the problem now.  
  
He wonders when CJ and Andi became so tangled in his mind that he can't leave one behind without losing a piece of the other. He tells himself that it's ridiculous to be forty-seven and still have a security blanket.  
  
He closes his eyes. He can go to sleep now, nudge closer to her, and she'll fall asleep, too. And in the morning, they'll get out of bed, like a normal Sunday morning, and she'll be back to her old self, the one he loves so dearly. And they'll put the whole night as far from their minds as possible, and everything will be back to normal for just a while.  
  
But this wasn't just another fight. This was one of those moments that defines the future, a turning point, when it all hung on his words. And if his silence is why it's ending now, that would be his worst mistake. And if it is really about her insistence that he had to let go... He always told himself it wasn't a matter of letting go, that he already did that.  
  
Why is he still wearing it? Andi asked him the same thing two years ago, right after they divorced, and he simply shrugged. "I don't know," he said and later, in one of those moments of honesty that became frequent in their short and sporadic conversations, added, "It still feels right." And it's still all he has to go on.  
  
His hand rubs her stomach, then pulls away. He gets up, because there's nothing else he can do, and it hurts him more than he can bear, more than she'll ever guess. He curses, silently, because it's her apartment, and he has to leave, and for a moment he thinks that maybe he should stay, try anyway. No, he tells himself and pushes himself up off the bed.  
  
He feels her eyes on his back as he gets dressed and doesn't turn around. Then he stops, tie in hand, and looks. She's still lying on her side, but her head is turned toward him. She puts her other shoulder down on the mattress, more collapsing than rolling onto her back. He can't read her expression.  
  
He sits down on the bed and suddenly feels ridiculous in a tuxedo. She sits up with the blanket tucked under her arms, and he doesn't blame her - it's terribly cold. "Don't forget to lock up," she says, and it's as casual as if he's just running across the street to buy coffee and bagels.  
  
"Okay," he says. "I'll turn up the heat."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
She leans over and plants a kiss on his cheek, so platonic it nearly drives him mad. He can still smell traces of the perfume she wore to the benefit.  
  
He closes his eyes, savors the moment, and tries to think of something to say. But it'll be nothing more than a desperate plea right now, and so he doesn't even say goodbye before he leaves. There's no need. He'll see her in the office Monday morning. 


End file.
